#steddie adjacent

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Eddie eventually makes Steve his own battle vest, but with all of Steve's favorite bands.

The back panel is an old Queen concert t-shirt. Robin helped pick out cute buttons and pins, including an ice cream cone, a BMW logo, and a baseball bat (of course)

But Steve's favorite parts are where the kids wrote their names and little doodles in between the patches.

[starshideurfics]

Captive, Captivating, Part Five

Part 4

into the steddie-verse, omegaverse, dubcon, while being sickly sweet, mpreg, pregnant sex, mdni 🔞

They return to Rome with little fanfare, Geta focused on keeping Stepan safe from prying eyes until they are ready to announce their mating. And with his condition so readily apparent, Geta is even more vigilant, the couple entering the city at night and in disguise.

He has to bribe some palace servants and threaten others to make it to his rooms unnoticed, but it’s worth it to finally help his mate get comfortable in a proper bed, this mattress so much bigger and more luxurious than the one in his tent. Exhausted from their travels, especially the push this final day, Stepan struggles to remove his tunica. Geta steps in to help, and freezes with his hand pressed to his mate’s belly.

Stepan smiles, warm and sweet, covering Geta’s hand with his own. “You feel it?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Geta nods and sinks to his knees. “This must be a good sign, yes?” To feel his pup for the first time now he’s home seems auspicious, no matter how solid the pit in his stomach is at being within 100 miles of his brother again. The movement under his hand becomes his only care in the world, at least in this moment, and his minor jealousy that Stepan has felt the pup for nearly a month abates completely.

“I hope so.”

The kicks slow to a stop, their pup shifting into a new position. Geta presses a kiss to Stepan’s belly, and Stepan idly pets Geta’s hair. “I am sorry, my sweet, I know you are tired,” Geta murmurs, still holding his belly, needing to be close to his child.

“You can still hold us once we are in bed, Geta.”

He looks up to see Stepan smiling fondly down at him and his stomach swoops. “But I must let you go in order to get there, and I do not wish to.” Geta presses his face back into Stepan’s belly, breathing his concentrated scent and purring.

Stepan tugs hard at the hairs at the nape of his neck, forcing his gaze back up. “We need to sleep. So we are both ready for tomorrow.”

“You are right, mellitus. As always.” Geta forces himself to release his mate and get back on his feet. He helps Stepan from his tunica, then strips off his own, arranging pillows to make sure Stepan is comfortable and supported in their bed, before slotting in behind him.

Geta sleeps deep and dreamless, and wakes to golden sunlight entering through the windows. Stepan still sleeps peacefully in his arms, at least until the door bursts open.

His mother sweeps into the room, fixing Geta with a pointed glare, quickly taking in every aspect of the room. “Truly, Geta, you sneak home, no word to let me know you’ve arrived, but you have time to find a courtesan to warm your bed?”

He feels Stepan stiffen under his touch, and Geta leans forward to kiss over his bonding bite. “Sorry to surprise you, Mother, but I wanted to keep him to myself a little longer.” Another kiss to Stepan’s hair before he slips from the bed. Geta plucks up a robe, drapes it over his shoulders, but pushes it open enough to show off his bite. “Stephanos is my mate.”

“Is that supposed to be better? Choosing a mate without your father’s blessing! How do you know you were not summoned for a marriage? You could have ruined months of negotiations.”

Geta smiles, can tell his mother is not truly angry. “Because you would say so, Mother. And because Father is more worried with Caracalla and conquest.” He goes to her, takes her delicate hands in his, and flashes a conspiratorial wink. “Besides, my mate is a prince by birth, and more importantly, he is carrying your grandchild.”

“Then I am sure your father will be most pleased, just ensure he looks the part when you present him. We shall be eating together in an hour.” She cups his cheek, guides his face down so she may kiss his forehead. “Now introduce me to your omega.”

Geta fetches a robe for Stepan, keeps him covered as he crawls from the bed, and wraps him in the silk, keeping a hand over his bump as he presents him. “Mother, this is Stephanos. Mellitus, meet my mother, Empress Julia Domna.”

Julia’s dark eyes take Stepan in as she circles them. “He is quite lovely, Geta. And tall.” Her hands gently hold Stepan at the sides of his belly, silently gauging the progress of his pregnancy. She turns her full attention to Stepan and asks, “You have felt the quickening?”

“Nearly a month ago, your grace.”

“Good. We shall hire you a personal midwife, to make sure you and the pup are healthy.” Her hands move up his body, feeling his small breasts, along his neck and ears, pulling on his chin so she may look at his teeth. “And where are you from that you have such pretty Latin?”

“Scythia. We speak Latin for the sake of trade, and my father hired a native speaker to teach my siblings and me.”

Geta purrs, proud of his mate for being so well composed in front of his mother. Which, of course, draws her attention to him again. “I’ll leave you to dress; best you move quickly so you can beat your brother to your father’s dining room.” His mother pats his cheek, and turns to leave just as quickly as she’d arrived.

“Your mother is intense,” Stepan murmurs softly, fingers seeking Geta’s where they rest over his belly.

“She is clever. Like you, mellitus.” Geta turns him in his arms, delicately holds his chin, and kisses him lazy and sweet. “And she is right. You must look the part when you meet my father.”

He starts with jewelry—rings, bangles, armbands, and necklaces—all gold and set with pearls that practically glow against Stepan’s skin. Geta doesn’t know much, but he helps Stepan braid his hair, tying the plaits into a knot at the back of his head, making plans to find a skilled ornatrix for his omega. Finally, he fetches a tunica the color of the sea, made of the finest silk, so thin it clings to every curve. He removes one of the brooches from the neck, leaving it more open on the left side, the fabric draping beautifully to show off his left breast in imitation of Venus Genetrix.

To show what he is meant to be: The Mother of Rome.

🌙🏛️🌿

Stepan looks down at himself, confused. “This is how you want to present me to your father?” Among his people, baring a single breast would mark him as a warrior, and while he has been trained to fight, he does not see the logic in drawing attention to that.

“Yes. You have the beauty of Venus, and I want him to know exactly what you are to me.” Geta traces a finger around his mating bite, his other hand cradling the side of his belly. “And what you are to him. The continuation of his dynasty.”

Throat tight, Stepan merely nods, tucking his nose to Geta’s neck as his mate holds him close. Then he’s deposited on the bed to wait as Geta dresses himself in an imperial purple tunica, slipping golden cuffs on his wrists and studding his fingers with rings. But beside Stepan, he looks almost plain.

Hand in hand, they make their way to the triclinium, passing servants and slaves, arriving to an empty room. Geta makes himself comfortable, sprawling on one of the klinē, and has Stepan sit beside him, protective hand over his belly. “Everything will be alright, mellitus. You will charm my father, and then we may rest properly. Tomorrow, I thought we might go to the palace baths, and after that I will show you Rome.”

Stepan reaches to play with Geta’s hair, fingers sliding through his short waves. “What greater part of Rome could you show me than the palace?” he asks, only half teasing. The little bit of the city that he saw in the dark was more than he could rightly imagine before he passed through the gates.

“The Colosseum and the Circus Maximus. We’ll go to gladiatorial games, chariot races. The Forum and the Pantheon. There is so-”

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” a warm voice says from the doorway, drawing their eyes. Grey hair and a full beard show Stepan how his husband may look in a handful of decades, as Emperor Severus enters the room. He is handsome, obviously spry and strong as he crosses to stand before them. “My son may have gone behind my back to claim you, Stephanos, but I cannot blame him,” he says, taking Stepan’s hands in his. “We shall have to wed you properly here in Rome before my campaign in Caledonia.”

Stepan simply bows his head in agreement, caught off guard by Geta’s father already knowing his name. Looking up past his lashes, he sees Julia Domna in the doorway, cryptic smile on her face.

“Of course, Father,” Geta says, maneuvering himself off the back of the klinē while keeping a grounding hand on Stepan. “Are you certain you should be going so far north? Mother wrote-”

“Mother worries too much over my health!” He claps Geta on the shoulder, laugh booming. “It was a mere fever and I am fine now.”

“A fever that left you delirious for three days straight! That kept you abed for more than a month,” Julia counters fiercely, practically shaking with frustration as she enters the room.

Severus reaches for his empress, tugs her into his chest. “And I am fine now, mellita.” He kisses her brow, but she stares up at him with fire still in her eyes. “You do not worry so when I am on the battlefield, but a fever has you thinking I am a frail old man!” He laughs again and grabs her hips, all but ruts against her. “You know I am not frail.” More laughter as he relaxes his hold and turns out to face the room. “I do admit I am old.”

“Father!” Geta scolds. Stepan understands; he does not wish to think of his parents dying either.

“Even an emperor cannot live forever. Many hardly live at all.” Severus wets his lips and swallows hard. “It is good you have found a suitable mate, Geta. It strengthens my desire you raise you up, and will hopefully calm the senate.”

“What?” Geta breathes.

“I think it best both you and your brother rule with me now. Especially since there is a pup on the way.”

Another outburst from the doorway. “You cannot be serious, Father!” The opulence of his clothes may explain Caracalla’s lateness, taking far longer to dress in his elaborate toga, but the sneer on his face looks near-permanent. “Geta goes off, pups a foreign whore, and you want to name him Augustus!”

Geta growls. Stepan holds him in place, shifts his hand so his alpha can feel their pup moving within him. Anything to stop him from going feral and challenging his brother.

It is the empress who shouts first. “Antoninus! You are not to disrespect Stephanos! He has already done more for the future of the empire than your wife ever managed.”

“How long is it since you had Plautilla banished, Brother?” Geta asks, his tone falsely light. “Three years? Four? And still no replacement.”

Caracalla snarls and lunges.

Stepan flinches.

Severus growls, catches his eldest by the shoulder, and scruffs him. “Be grateful your brother has been fruitful. The pup in that omega’s belly shall be your heir as well.”

Caracalla whines, teeth still bared. Severus lets him go, snaps his fingers, and a slave enters with a tray of olives, grapes, and soft cheese. The tension in the room remains thick, but Severus smiles, confident in his control. He looks to Stepan and his smile turns apologetic. “I’m sure Geta already warned you about how he and his brother snipe at one another. Let’s not allow it to ruin our appetites; the pup must have you ravenous by now.”

Stepan smiles, nods, and forces himself to eat.

🌙🏛️🌿

Keeping his promise, after the mixed welcome from his family Geta takes Stepan back to their rooms, fully intending to let his mate rest until the evening meal.

His mother has other plans.

She swans into the room with a group of omega servants, chirping, “You cannot keep dressing your wife in your own clothing, Geta. He must have proper stolae and tunicae befitting his status.” She turns to Stepan. “Do you spin? Weave?”

“Yes, but I am not very skilled.”

“Then you shall practice. I shall have a loom set up for you next to mine in the atrium, but of course we do not expect you to create your own wardrobe.” She waves over an omega girl of about fifteen, has her gauge Stepan’s measurements. “We shall have to go to an artisan for something ready-made that is suitable for your wedding clothes.” She cups his cheek, tucks back a strand of hair that escaped his braid. “I’ve a girl who can see to your hair, I’ll send her to you later.” Her attention turns again to his pregnant belly, touch light as she holds him. “And I’ve sent for a midwife; she should be staying at the palace until after you deliver.”

In less than a day, she has secured everything Geta had planned to find for Stepan, when she hadn’t so much as known he’d existed last night. “Thank you, Mother,” Geta murmurs, stepping in to kiss her cheek before possessively wrapping his arms around his mate from behind. “We appreciate all you gave done and are doing, but Stephanos needs rest. The journey was hard and the pup disturbs his sleep.”

“I’m sure all you will do is rest,” Julia responds, knowing glint in her eyes.

“Mother!”

“There is no shame in an alpha wanting his omega, my son. And I’ve no doubt you are tending to his needs as well.”

Geta flushes hot and his mother laughs. “We will talk more at supper,” she finishes. Then with a wave and snap of her fingers, she leaves as quickly as she arrived.

Stepan turns in Geta’s arms to face him. “I quite like your mother,” he says, suppressing a giggle as he rests his head on Geta’s shoulder.

“I knew you would.” He’s desperate to kiss his pretty wife, equally desperate to keep him relaxed, and settles for nuzzling into his hair and pressing soft lips to his temple.

“And while I would like to have a nap, I was also hoping you would touch me sweetly, Husband.”

“You know I will do so gladly, mellitus.” Were he not worried about the pup, Geta would sweep Stepan into his arms and carry him to bed. But he is, so he carefully guides his mate back until he can sit at the foot of the bed, still looking like a goddess on earth. Geta can’t help himself then, moaning as he takes most of Stepan’s small, bared breast into his mouth, using his tongue and teeth on him. His goal is not to arouse, simply to connect, to be close to his mate and worship the place their pup will nurse.

Stepan sighs, fingers curling in Geta’s hair. “Harder, Geta. Please.”

His intentions shift, mouth suctioning around the stiff bud of Stepan’s nipple, hand coming up to grip his neck, to press his thumb into his mating gland. More little, mewling sighs follow. Geta pulls off with a gasp and groans, “Need to see you. All of you.” The clinging silk leaves next to nothing to the imagination, but Geta needs to gaze upon warm skin, to be as close as possible to his pup when his hands next cover Stepan’s belly.

Geta helps Stepan wriggle from his tunica, throwing the garment aside, hungry eyes roving over his naked body. He is still gilded, covered in gold up his arms and hanging from his neck, shining like the sun. “So lovely, my omega,” Geta murmurs, kissing him softly, bracketing his belly with warm hands. “Do you want my mouth on your perfect cunt? Or do you need to be filled? Should I seat you on my cock and suck your pretty tits?”

“Alpha…” Stepan whines, one hand clutching at Geta’s shoulder, the other fumbling for his cock under his tunica. “Fill me. Need to feel you inside.” He mouths wetly at Geta’s neck, kisses sloppily up to his ear and nips at the lobe.

Geta loves having his mate so desperate and needy, loves how good Stepan has become at asking for what he wants. Loves the feeling of Stepan tugging at his clothes, of a too-tight squeeze around his cock. Loves the slide of slick under his fingers as he teases Stepan’s already pulsing cunt. His tunica joins the silk on the floor, a regal mess of color ready to tangle together.

Reclining against the pillows, Geta gives his cock a few cursory tugs, and reaches for Stepan’s hand, helping him to his throne. No mater how many times he is engulfed by his mate’s sweet heat, Geta knows it will always overwhelm him to be taken into Venus’s embrace, to be taken into the cunt that was made for him.

Stepan sinks down with a moan, wordless yet Geta understands him perfectly. “I know, mellitus,” he croons, peppering kisses over his collarbones and kneading a soft breast. “Take what you need.”

He rides him slow, each languid shift of his hips just enough for them both to build towards a gentle crest, Stepan’s peak coming in waves as slick dribbles in a steady stream from his prick. Geta follows him, knot swelling, hands cradling their pup, little feet kicking under his palm. Tears fill his eyes, his body tingles as the intensity of his orgasm dissipates and his sweat cools on his skin.

Stepan’s hands cover his, holding their pup together. “Geta…” he whispers, collapsing forward to rest his forehead on his alpha’s shoulder.

“I know, amore. I know.”

[goodlittlerobot]

okay i gotta make a post thanking all of you who have read, liked or reblogged the steddie fic i posted.

thank you for the nice words, unhinged tags, hearts, comments and follows. it genuinely warms my ice cold cold, tiny little heart and i wanna send every one of yous one of those edible fruit bouquets i used to see commercials about.

thank you sm i hope to post more soon. if y’all ever have a prompt or request or even just a silly lil thought, my ask is always open.

[hairmetal666]

Six months. For six months Steve has been listening to this radio show and not ever one time did he expect to hear the host, Eddie Munson, growl out the words “Hawkins, Indiana," but here they are. The name said.

Steve stops the car dead in the middle of the road, can’t hear anything aside from the radio show host listing Hawkins facts in his sonorous voice.

He should have known. Like rationally, he should have considered it a possibility that Hawkins might come up on this late night talk radio show called Hellfire about monsters, cryptids, folklore. 

It’s just. He thought. Hawkins hadn’t exactly made national news, and what had was about a toxic gas leak and a government coverup, not exactly this show’s focus. 

But enough, apparently. Obviously. 

Eddie starts talking about the disappearance of Will Byers, and Steve lays his head on his steering wheel, tries to ignore the way his hands tremble. 

For six months Hellfire brought him comfort and companionship as he roams the dark street of Hawkins on what Robin calls his patrols. It’s not like he can sleep, not anymore, so what better to do than make sure everyone is safe? That there’s no signs of the Upside Down? That the gates are still closed? 

Hellfire has been his companion through it all and now—now—

Eddie’s talking about the Department of Energy, MK Ultra, a fake body in the quarry. 

He could turn it off. Or better yet, go home. But he sits in his car out by Lover’s Lake and he listens to Eddie detail the rumors and speculation. Listens to the callers who share their two cents and conspiracy theories—none close to the truth. 

The thing is. He’s become—fond of Eddie, of Hellfire. He doesn’t care about cryptids, isn’t interested in Big Foot, but he was captivated by Eddie. Not just him, though, it’s the whole thing with his producer, Gareth, and his two other best friends who pop in from time to time. They’re funny, nerdy, love that dork game the kids play. And if the low resonance of Eddie’s voice makes him a little melty? Well, that’s between him and 3am. 

Steve calls in, sometimes. Has called in. Just, you know, once a week or so. It's not like he knows anything about the monsters, but he asks questions, likes to listen to Eddie talk no matter if he understands.

They finish with a caller and Eddie says, "unfortunately, we'll probably never know what happened."

And Gareth cuts in to say, "Hawkins is only an hour a way. You know. If you find that interesting."

"What are you saying, Gar?" Eddie asks. "That we should go?" He laughs.

"Why not? We could do our own investigation. Maybe we'll find something the authorities don't want us to."

"Hmm, what do you think, listeners? Should we don our adventurer caps and head into the unknown?"

He doesn't remember putting the car into drive, but he knows he's speeding toward the little two-pump gas station on the edge of town and the deserted pay phone there.

The line beeps and beeps when he dials. He tries again and again, until finally there's a click, and Eddie's radio voice booming in his ear.

"Thank you for calling Hellfire," he laughs, manic. "You're--

"You can't go to Hawkins," he interrupts.

"Sweetheart," Eddie croons. "Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you?"

"I'm Fine. Stay out of Hawkins."

"You gotta ease into it a little, baby. Little small talk first."

"Eddie..."

"What do you know about Hawkins?"

"N--nothing. I've heard bad things about it. Cops."

"Cops," Eddie snorts. "I'm not afraid of Hawkins PD. Are you calling because you're worried for my well-being, sweetheart?"

"Yes." Steve doesn't hesitate.

"You're my favorite listener, you know that?"

"I'm being serious."

"It's cute."

"It's a really bad idea to go to Hawkins."

"Do you know what's funny? You didn't know what a chupacabra was, but you know about Hawkins."

"I--" he swallows. "Have specific interests."

Eddie laughs. "What do you know about Hawkins?"

"Nothing," too quick.

"Are you lying to me?"

"I can't say."

"You just keep getting more and more mysterious."

"Please, stay away. It's--there are things, people--you don't want their attention. Just, please. Trust me."

"I'll agree on one condition. Tell me how you know this."

"I can't," he whispers. "That's why you need to trust me."

"What's stopping you?"

He flashes back to an interrogation room, Hopper's stern face, the even sterner ones of the government agents, the four-inch high stack of papers to sign, again and again and again.

"NDAs."

Dead silence on the other line until Eddie asks, "wait, PLURAL?" excitement spikes through the speakers.

That's when Steve hears the distant click down the line, knows it isn't him or Eddie, knows--

The line goes dead.

"Fuck."

He goes straight to the cabin. It's late enough in the morning now that he's unsurprised to see the glowing ember of a cigarette near the porch steps.

"What'd you do, kid?" Hopper asks when Steve gets out of his car.

"Called into a radio show about monsters."

The chief sighs, drops his hands to his sides, muttering. The crunch of gravel way up the long drive has them both turning.

"Guess we're in for a long day." Hopper stomps out his cigarette.

---

Steve isn't allowed to listen to Hellfire anymore. Is forbidden from calling in. And he gets it, okay, he knows. He said too much on the radio, but he hopes that he didn't get Eddie in trouble, that they don't try to come to Hawkins.

He gets a late start on his patrols one night. Took the kids to the movies, caved within minutes when they begged to go for ice cream after, Robin giving him a fond eye roll when he stops.

It's late, summer sun set for hours already, and he's driving on backroads behind the lab. And it's been--it's been a few weeks, okay, since the last call, long enough that he's stopped thinking Eddie will show, so when he sees the van on the side of the road--when he sees the van he doesn't stop right away.

It's tan and white or maybe grey, old, from the 70's or something; spiky black lettering on the side. It says Hellfire.

Steve slams on the breaks so hard the tires squeal, car skidding. He parks haphazardly on the side of the road, only grabbing a flashlight before hurling himself into the woods.

He figures Eddie and the guys will be easy to find, bumbling through unfamiliar forest, but minutes pass with nothing but his own feet crushing through the underbrush. He's afraid to yell, afraid it will draw the wrong kind of attention, but he does a kind of hoarse whisper, knowing it's not enough.

There's a small rock formation that he skirts past, mind everywhere but on his surroundings. He hears a rustle, he thinks, turns, and in the space of a breath, collides with something distinctly solid, warm, and judging by the pained grunt, human.

"Fuck. Gareth?" A very familiar voice asks.

"Eddie??" He responds. His fingers scrabble for his flashlight, illuminating the leaf strewn forest floor and some nearby tree roots.

A beam of light illuminates his chest and face, forcing his eyes down. "Who are you?"Eddie demands.

Steve finally grabs his flashlight, points it at Eddie's middle. Has a second to take in his long, curly hair, his cut-off t-shirt, pale skin and the swirl of inky black tattoos. "I'm--I--I called into your show. I--I told you not to--"

"Oh," Eddie's breath hitches. "Sweetheart. You said not to come to Hawkins and then you--you--" He blinks, seems to struggle to find words. "I didn't expect you to be so beautiful."

He smiles. "i--your show, I loved it. I miss listening to you. I miss--" He takes a step, closes the distance. Eddie smiles and it grips something in his stomach, doesn't let go.

Over Eddie's shoulder, there's a flash of movement, catches in Steve's periphery. It's an unfurling, an opening, there's a shine of saliva, teeth.

His heart stops.

"Eddie--"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Run."

[hitlikehammers]

unforeseen complications 🩸 steve/kas!eddie

“What’s wrong?” Steve doesn’t try to sit up again, knowing Eddie wants, more like needs to press against Steve like this because…they’d pushed the boundaries. Eddie had needed more blood than normal, because they’d skipped out on more than one quick snack-time. And Steve does feel the hit harder for it. It’s not a foreign feeling, though: the aftermath, beyond what his own body needs to recover— “We can’t keep doing this, Steve.”

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-s4, kas!eddie, established relationship, angst with a happy ending, as in: eddie angsts about his new vampiric tendencies while steve has none of it, true love, blood drinking (just a little), terrified eddie (that he did steve any possible damage), long-suffering steve (who knows it’s all completely fucking FINE and also they’re dumb in love forever)♥️

for @steddielovemonth day eight: "I'll take care of you." "It's rotten work." "Not to me. Not if it's you." —Euripides

Steve is groggy, his head’s a little fuzzy and unevenly weighted in that way he can already tell will make him dizzy when he opens his eyes and tries to lift it—so he doesn’t, not just yet—but normally he sleeps this part off. Normally the side effects aren’t as sharp as this is already shaping up to be, because his body keeps him blissful conked out long enough where it’s all a little more of a dull roar that he can ignore while he gets through the day and slides slow back to normal.

And it’s not like it gets this intense that often; it’s in extenuating circumstances. Sometimes one’s they create for themselves, sure, but usually it’s some world-threatening shitfuckery that pushes the limits this bad. Like…at least eight times out of ten.

At least.

So it’s weird that he’s waking up before he’s due to shake off the worst of it, when said worst-of-it is still clinging to his skin, his eyeballs, the linings of his veins.

He tries to make sense of what he can feel through the fog: weight, mostly. Something heavy that’s not just his own body rebelling against regaining consciousness too soon. There’s…something on top of him.

Heavy.

Shaking.

There’s a sound, maybe, like…breathing but that’s shaky too and—

Oh.

Oh no, it’s not just shaky.

The weight on top of him’s fucking crying, and trying real hard not to be found out for it.

Steve would goddamn know what that sounds like, specifically. From a whole-ass lifetime of experience in his godforsaken family.

And Steve knows what his own fucking boyfriendsounds like in distress, so—

“Eds,” Steve doesn’t even have to push to open his eyes and sit up too fast because there no dizziness, no nausea he can’t work through when Eddie in need is on the other side of it; “what’s wrong, what happened, I—”

The hand on his chest is firm but awkward, because Eddie is still splayed over his chest, doesn’t seem to have any intention of moving at all.

“Lay back down,” Eddie’s voice is muffled in Steve’s skin; “save your strength, you’re still,” and yeah…muffled, but too rough, cracked down the middle; “you’re…”

More than cracked, fuck. Shattering.

“What’s wrong?” Steve doesn’t try to sit up again, knowing Eddie wants, more like needs to press against Steve like this because…they’d pushed the boundaries. Eddie had needed more blood than normal, because they’d skipped out on more than one quick snack-time. And Steve does feel the hit harder for it. It’s not a foreign feeling.

And the aftermath, beyond what his own body needs to recover—

“We can’t keep doing this, Steve.”

—is also not unexpected. Pretty fucking routine now. Steve’s even practiced enough to swallow down the urge to sigh.

Because, considering that Eddie is skin-to-skin, blanketed on top of Steve under about seven blankets, more than Steve even knew they owned as he shudders through something suspiciously close to sobbing while the tone of the words screamheartbreak: Steve would have every right to be concerned when it sounded a whole hell of a lot like his boyfriend was trying to break up with him.

The first time was a fucking doozy, sure. Second time even, that sucked too.

Now though, with it being fairly fucking routine for…close to a year, now, especially after rough runs like last night?

Steve’s kinda learned to take it as the sign of affection he’s come to understand it stems from, deep in Eddie’s too-soft, too-tender chest, always having been ready to feel so fucking much—Steve wishes he’d known it sooner. Maybe they could have felt less alone, together.

Whatever. They’re here now.

Though it’d been a pretty free-and-clear couple of months—Eddie had only crumbled so far as to have shaken in a corner in Steve’s arms for close to probably five hours one of the three or so times they’d had to stretch too much time between regular feedings—because when Eddie came back, when he appeared in Steve’s living room dripping the black sludge the Upside Down seemed to specialize in best—trembling and stammering and…be-fanged.

And Steve had just looked at him, gaped a couple minutes—which he stands by being wholly fair and justified—and then did the only genuinely sane thing he could have done, given the givens.

He’d pushed Eddie toward the nearest fucking bathroom, under some hot water, and cleaned him the fuck up.

And didn’t think—yet—about how warm it made Steve: the sight of Eddie’s naked frame under the spray as it slowly siphoned off the goo.

Nope. Not the time.

He was sick, though, that was clear, but Steve…he can’t explain even now how he knew to be cautious in letting anyone in the Party know that they’re friend, this singular lost member of their family had somehow crawled back to the land of the living. Because yeah, it could have been the fact that Eddie was cool to the touch. Paler than he’d been before. Barely had a heartbeat but was definitely alive enough to insist he was pressed into Steve’s heat every night, in Steve’s bed; to keep shaking, to wretch more of the black slime up until it was just dry heaving, and…

There were plenty of reason to have caused the hesitance. But it wasn’t any of that.

It wasn’t even how, after Steve slit himself on an envelope, Eddie had scurried to his side, made to lunge then cowered back, cried like he was in pain before saying the first words Steve had gotten out of him yet:

Please. I’m sorry, I’m sorry Stevie, please—

And Steve wasn’t immune to what spending every fucking night wrapped up in another body. A definitely not unattractive body. A body belonging to a personality that Steve was getting pretty interested in getting to know better—literally and…intimately, y’know, Steve crossed the bridge of being totally shocked by that after he’d less-than-half-mourned Billy fucking Hargrove for the sake of his and and literally no other reason—but. Yeah.

He’d have given Eddie anything, at that points while he was hoarding and harboring him, safe as much as selfish in this house. He’d have—

What Eddie wanted was the blood from his papercut. And…well.

The fangs make…wel, they made a lot more sense all of a sudden.

Eddie fought it when Steve dragged him to the couch and offered his wrist because the guy was sucking kinda pitifully, like, way too desperate on Steve’s fingertip and not in a sexy way—and Steve would actually really like to reach the point of it being a sexy way someday, specifically with Eddie, he’d already stopped trying to deny that to himself—so he pulled his hand away, cupped Eddie’s cheek (warmer, more color in it), brushed by accident against his jugular (a real pulse, and racing, but overtaxed, like it needed…more to work with and yeah, if Steve hadn’t made up his mind already that would’ve done the job, flat out)—and when Eddie whimpered, Steve pushed his advantage of having a full blood supply, dragged Eddie into his lap, tore his own bloody strips from above the veins he could see under the heel of his palm straight down and Eddie gasped, cried out, tried to scramble away—

But Steve shoved his wrist to Eddie’s lips—knew it was maybe dirty pool but…he wasn’t stupid. If Eddie needed blood, he…he needed blood.

And Eddie was reluctant, at first, didn’t try to pull away once he realized that Steve had got him in a pretty solid hold from the waist down, and he just was not strong enough right now, not yet but he could be, if he’d just—

Steve hadn’t been worried, but if there’d been reservations, like, if Robin had had any idea he was doing this and voiced her innumerable concerns: if Steve have been worried, Eddie’s presence of mind to even think to resist, to look at Steve like he was in pain to avoid the blood waiting on offer, specifically for him, it’s all he would need.

But seeing that Steve hadn’t even thought to be worried, he ultimately caught Eddie’s frantic eyes, leaned in and brushed his lips to Eddie’s, tasted his own blood as he whispered:

It’s for you, I want you to have it so that you’re okay, and his hand had braced on Eddie’s chest where that heartbeat was struggling, but wild, and he didn’t even dare to blink until Eddie’s tongue lapped accidental at the blood steaming down.

And the rest is…history.

Eddie had tried to set his own limits, but Steve’s old hat at being the victim of the Upside Down’s bullshit, or Russian spy craft at that; he knows when the blood loss is actually a concern. He keeps his hand to eddie chest, makes his own call when that pulse is strong enough to ease his wrist away.

Steve hadn’t been a fucking lifeguard, after all. He does know some things.

And so that had been…that.

They’d told the others, eventually, but just that Eddie was back. It was enough to prove Steve’s fears in and of itself—they already suspected Vecna, Eddie as a sleeper agent or some shit, two guns trained on him in an instant: and that’s without the blood…thing.

So they keep that to themselves. It’s definitely a contributing factor to how they end up in dire enough straits that Steve’s laid up a little after just some casual bloodsucking until eddies heartbeat finds its strength of rhythm again.

It’s not a big deal. Steve’s had so many migraines worse than this ever is.

Except for when it gets to how Eddie reacts. How he falls apart for fear, for Steve.

That’s the worst pain Steve’s ever known, every goddamn time.

“You were cold,” Eddie’s voice shivers as he raps into Steve’s chest hair; “to me, you were cold to me.”

“You’d just fed, and you were hurting for it,” Steve reasons; it takes Eddie time to warm back up when they spread the feeding out too long. “You’re still not evened-out,” he reasons; Dustin would have a good science-y name for it, but they…they can’t risk it.

Steve won’t fucking risk it. Risk Eddie.

He cranes his neck, keeps his eyes closed to make sure he doesn’t aggravate the feeling of being off-balance, but he needs to press his lips to Eddie’s temple, test the heat.

“Close though,” Steve smiles into the skin, then kisses with intent. He…he loves that he can give this to Eddie. He doesn’t think Eddie gets that part, thinks Eddie only sees it as taking, rather than a gift for Steve in return just as strong.

“Steve,” Eddie moans, shakes his head as more a messy swirl of matted curls; “we can’t.”

Again: it stopped being convincing months ago; but Eddie does sound particularly distressed.

Steve brings a hand to run through that unruly hair, careful. Gentle.

“You weren’t moving,” Eddie finally whispers; “I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear,” and Steve knows his limits, knows that Eddie didn’t hear or see even with his enhanced senses now because he’d been frantic, and his own heartbeat and shot quick to pounding after being so weak—it always sets him off kilter for a second or two.

Steve cradles Eddie to his chest rig he re, so he can hear clear the heartbeat Steve knows is steady now, strong.

They’ve both evened out. They’re both okay.

“I can’t risk you,” Eddie breathes into the space where the beat hits hardest; “I can’t lose you.”

“So,” Steve nods, tucks Eddie under his chin a little tighter; “losing me by design instead is your solution,” he sucks his teeth, hums as if he’s actually consider such fucking nonsense:

“Yeah, cool, makes sense.”

He thinks the sarcasm drips just the right amount.

“Stevie,” Eddie whines, like it hurts, and Steve never wants that. But he might…need for it to, a little at least, to get the point across.

“We’ve been through this, Eds,” Steve breathes low; “I’m not actually looking to kick the fucking bucket here,” he knows Eddie won’t appreciate the levity but he can’t help it, pressed the curve of his lips to eddies scalp. “I’m much more interested in making sure you’re not ell enough and strong enough and safe enough,” and he reaches, then, to lift Eddie chin, to turn him, to look, to see:

“To stay with me.”

And like clockwork, Eddie’s eyes widen, darken, narrow and Eddie scrambles up, takes Steve’s face in both his open palms:

“Always,” he hisses; “nothing could make me want to be anywhere else, not ever.”

And Steve knows it. Knows he means it

“But Steve—”

And because Steve knows? He’s happy to cut this the fuck off at the stem, nip it in the bud, press a the same fingertip eddies sucked the blood from so many nights ago, that first time that started the rest of Steve’s whole goddamn life—

Steve’s more than happy to press that fingertip to Eddie’s lips, to shut him the fuck yo when he needs it.

“I grew up not knowing what love was,” Steve says simply, and eddies eyes flash red—only when he’s incensed do they do that, and Steve not-so-secretly finds it hot as fuck. “Except for knowing that what I got wasn’t it,” he shrugs; “or else, not the kind it was supposed to be. Benign neglect,” he flinches a little as other, harsher memories buck their heads and he knows he has to say something because Eddie sees him, Eddie will draw it out himself otherwise and…

“Until the times it wasn’t,” Steve murmurs and, well.

At least he gets another sexy-as-fuck flash of crimson in those eyes he adores.

“But I knew what I did have wasn’t right,” Steve’s quick to press on; “so even though I kinda started from zero on the learning curve, it wasn’t,” he bites his lip and it’s not even weird anymore, to revisit the journey even if it started less-than-happily.

Because Steve knows the ending. And how it’s not even an ending at all.

“I knew I was looking for something that sat at the opposite end of the spectrum from what I did know. What I had been taught,” and he grabs for eddies hands and gathers them under his chin to rest on, to just…look his fill of this impossible man he’s fallen for, that he’s more than happily given his life to all the ways he knows how.

“And once I unlearned the bad shit, and started finding the real deal?”

He waits for Eddie’s eyes to glitter just so, waits for his head to tilts just the tiniest bit before he leans up:

“Love is this,” Steve breathes against Eddie’s lips with real fucking meaning:

“Love is exactly this.”

“Nearly fucking dying because your freak-ass boyfriend has to drink your goddamn blood and—” Eddie tries to deflect but is pretty fucking shirt with it. Not least because there are tears running down his cheek. Not least because Steve knows now. What love is.

He’d just spoken on the truth.

“Not even close to fucking dying at all,” Steve reminds him with a playful eye roll and a squeeze of his hand; “save maybe how much it killed me when I thought I’d lost you before we had a chance,” and honestly: Steve hates thinking about how all of this was almost never know, never had, never felt.

Yeah: that fucking kills him, just to think.

“So add that into the love-column,” Steve grins a little, imagining the upgraded version of a ‘YOU RULE’ board; “this is love because you’re breathing,” and Steve kisses the little divot above Eddie’s top lip; “you’re safe,” and then he kisses, nibble Eddie’s neck;“your heart beats when there’s enough blood for it to move around,” and Steve’s not strong enough to resist nipping at the heady pulse between Eddie’s collarbones.

“You’re as alive as anything or anyone in every way that could ever count,” Steve breathes; “you’re here. With me.”

Then he leans back again, looks Eddie in the eyes:

“You care enough—”

“Love.”

Eddie’s tone is this sharp, unquestionable thing. It’s thrilling every time it comes out.

All the more, said around that one word.

“I love,” Eddie’s hands hold closer, more dear at the sides of Steve’s face again; “whether it’s enough or not, whether it ever could be, I fucking love you—”

“Then you love,” Steve picks back up, pecks Eddie’s lips because he can; “enough to check that I’m okay, when we do this, and it’s just a little more of a challenge than normal.”

Eddie looks like he’s about to choke on something.

“Challenge?”

Ah. About to choke on that word specifically; that tracks.

“I like a good challenge,” Steve reminds him, reaches to pinch his cheek, delights in how blood—Steve’s blood—rushes to the surface; “fills the gap from all the sports-playing.”

Eddie’s mouth moves around silent words for a few seconds and then:

“Normal?”

Steve doesn’t even try not to laugh. With glee, even. With wonder.

“Wild, ain’t it,” he asks, kinda fucking joyful; “who’d have ever thought Steve Harrington would find a love this big,” and he runs his hand over Eddie’s arm, shoulder to wrist; “this perfect, for everything he is, not what he’s gotta twist himself in knots to try and become,” and Steve’s voice gets lower, more earnest, more genuinely fucking grateful for…all of it.

For his Eddie.

“Who would have thought Steve Harrington would fall into a love that held his whole fucking heart in its hands,” he brings those hands to his chest, where they clutch automatic; “to do with what you would, to take as far as you liked,” and his voice goes low—they don’t know what’s been done to Eddie beyond the obvious, what life and death mean for him;

“To keep as long as you decided to want.”

Basically, Steve isn’t too concerned about the whats. He’s more concerned about Eddie having no shred of doubt, that Steve wants whatever it means, to be something they share. He wants whatever it means to mean the same for both of them, if it can. However it can.

Whatever it takes.

“Steve,” Eddie shakes his head, face ruddy, tear-strewn and mouth agape.

“I don’t deserve you,” he exhales, then breathes in, sharp and shaking; “and you deserve so much more than this.”

“Let me make the decision,” Steve says, sure in it. Maybe for the first time in his life, he has no doubts for anything involving what he feels for Eddie, and the truth of what Eddie feels for him.

“And since I made that decision fucking months ago already, I’ll save you the suspense,” he turns Eddie’s chin on the tip of a finger, one more time.

“There is no more than this.”

And Eddie blinks; blinks.

And then his strings are cut, and he collapses full into Steve again, this time gathering him in by every limb he can tangle, gasping and grasping and needing and desperate and kissing every inch of Steve he can reach.

“Fuck, I love you baby,” Eddie moans deep from the center in his chest: “forever.”

It’s a true thing. It’s a promise.

It’s an acknowledgement of what they don’t yet know, but can agree with all they are to share, together, equal.

For always.

“I know,” Steve tells him simply, pulse pumping only joy; “and I am always gonna know. I’m always gonna be here, to make sure you never forget.”

And Eddie’s face falls for half-a-second, before it steels with resolve, before his hands lace with Steve’s and smack them flat to Eddie’s heaving chest.

To Eddie’s pounding heart.

“Never forget here,” he vow sir; “it’s never a matter of not loving.”

And Eddie’s scared, still, in his eyes; Steve knows.

It almost means more, that he’s promising it all, nonetheless. With his whole goddamn heart.

“I know,” Steve reminds him the best way he knows; pressing closer, tighter to that beat.

“And I’m always gonna be right here.”

Eddie nods, closes his eyes and holds Steve one breath closer to that pumping blood:

“Right here.”

And that?

And that suits Steve more than fucking fine.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here

[wheneverfeasible]

A random plot idea that came to me suddenly. Please feel free to use this idea, just credit me if it inspires you and send a link with any story written!

-

I’ve read a few fics with the premise but it’s like a She’s All That AU where King Steve is bet to make The Freak, Eddie Munson, fall in love with him, or make him popular, or get him to prom so that they can Carrie him. And of course Steve goes along with it because he’s still trying to be what people want him to be or whatever and he doesn’t like it but he does it, only to end up catching feelings for Eddie.

And okay yeah. Cue that heartbreak angst when Eddie finds out. But…BUT…

Imagine that AU but Eddie knows about the bet. They don’t know he knows, but he discovers it quickly. He’s King Freak after all; the gossip gets back to him before the popular jocks even get to putting the plan in motion, or he overhears it himself, or whatever. But he knows.

He knows and he plays along. He lets Steve woo him, acts first like he’s wary and annoyed about the guy, makes him work for it, but he lets himself pretend to fold and accept the dates. Accepts the kissing. Accepts the more.

Because yeah, he knows it’s fake, knows Steve could never actually want him, but he still has King Steve’s mouth around his dick, and he honestly has to congratulate the guy for going so far for a bet. And hell, he’s not going to pass up the chance to see just how good the fabled King is with his dick either.

Eddie figures he’ll have some fantastic sex, eat good food and get some dope gifts like a new amp for his sweetheart all courtesy of Harrington money, and…yeah, okay, even if it’s fake, Steve’s actually pretty good company. And Eddie even makes friends with one of the cheerleaders and isn’t that fucking bizarre but she’s sweet even if her boyfriend is an ass.

And Steve is still friends with his ex and through that he knows some dweeb kids, and damn is Harrington actually kind of good with kids, kind of…nice? And he’s funny in a bitchy kind of way, and his family life actually kind of (a lot of) sucks. And he helps this band geek who was being bullied by one of his teammates, and…and maybe, in another life, Eddie might have thought King Steve was actually a good dude instead of the douchebag he knew he was.

Because this was fake. It’s all just a bet. And Eddie is going to laugh when, after all of this, he gets to pull the final prank on Harrington and all his court. Because he knows it’s fake. He knows Steve doesn’t actually like him. He knows that, even when he laughs in all their faces at the end because he got to fuck King Steve in the ass, he’s going to be leaving it all alone and…and without Steve.

And that’s fine. It’s fake. It’s fine. Steve could and would never actually like him. The King and The Freak. And it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

And the truth is revealed, and Eddie laughs at them because he’s known all along, and Eddie pretends his heart isn’t breaking while Steve does the same. And it’s okay and it’s fine.

Except it isn’t.

But it is fine, because Steve’s ex? That band geeked he helped? Eddie’s cheerleader friend?

By god they’re going to get these two idiots to realize what’s been right in front of their eyes this whole time.

And this is only the beginning of the royal love story of King Hair and King Freak and how they turned Hawkins High upside down.

I guess you could say they really are all that.

-

Tagged: @derythcorvinus

[steddieunderdogfics]

a parallel I would lay my life on by hitlikehammers

Rating: Mature

8,209 words, 1/1 chapters

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Tags: Post-Stranger Things 4 Vol. 2, (or more accurately: directly-post Bat Attack), Eddie Munson Lives, (or does he?), (!!!!), (he's pretty sure this might be a hallucination at the end of the road for his poor brain), (like the last gasps of his synapses or some shit), (or a pretty dream before the end all wish-fulfillment style), Future Fic, Wherein Eddie Wakes Up In Bed With Steve Harrington, Like He BELONGS There, And There Are CHILDREN, (spoiler: not THEIR children; they're just very good uncles/babysitters even years hence), Kid Fic-adjacent, True Love, Established Relationship, (IS IT THOUGH? or is it JUST IN EDDIE'S HEAD?!?!), Domestic Fluff, Domestic Bliss, (but it's not REAL IS IT), Except Then: Eddie Munson Wakes Up, Hospitals, Picking Handcuffs as a Love Language, Falling in Love at the End of the World, But When You Stop The Apocalypse—IF You Live To See It—Then It's Just:, Falling In Love, Happy Ending

Summary:

Eddie’s gotta be so fucking real right now: he was 100% not expecting to wake back to the world again after the bats made a meal out of him. Like...ever. And he didn’t really buy into the afterlife, and even if he did, he’d be less surprised by the fire and brimstone shit than whatever he’s feeling right now. Because right now is warm, but not hellfire warm. He can feel the sheets he’s wrapped up in are a thread count that’s way above the Munson tax bracket, and the warmth he’s feeling so fully is starting to give itself away as being pressed to his back, wrapped around his chest— Arms. He's being held. And when he turns— Holy fucking shit. The arms belong to Steve goddamn Harrington. And Steve—unbearably gorgeous fucking Steve, who somehow looks like years have passed but that they did him every fucking favor—studies him for a second where Eddie thinks his soul’s being read in its entirety, the intensity of that gaze weighty in his veins, pumping through his heart with an intimate seeing of him and it should feel fucking terrifying, and to a point it does. But mostly, it feels…perfect. What the hell?

This is a MOD rec as a part of our Fic Fridays.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

[corrodedcoughin]

just thinking about musician eddie who ends up doing country music under a pseudonym similar to Orville Peck. Eddie having his rock and metal band but the influence of Wayne and his upbringing doesn’t leave him. So he puts on a mask and picks up an acoustic to be this character. A character that’s closer to his real life than he lets on. A deep voiced cowboy singing about the difficulty of growing up gay but how comfortable he is with his identity.

He only ever does small gigs under this name and the audience isn’t huge. But there’s one regular that turns up to every show, he’s never stayed to talk to Eddie after and Eddie’s never been brave enough to go up to him. He knows he’d let all his secrets out under the attention of those hazel eyes and pretty boy smile.

Tonight though? Tonight he might just risk it all because the gif is over. Eddie is standing at the bar and he’s being handed a drink he definitely didn’t ask for by a man he definitely wants to know more about.

Or!!! Alternatively!!!!!

Steve as an Orville Peck style country singer. Going it to gigs and shows and getting a name for himself as the mysterious masked singer who is a proud queer cowboy. Creating a character to share his emotions and experiences. He doesn’t think it’ll come to much, just a way to let himself be heard.

Only he ends up gaining a strong following. His audiences are small but they are dedicated, understanding the idea steve has created and the importance of it. He loves this group he’s made for himself and how comfortable everyone feels at his shows. There’s often full conversations between him and the crowd, letting everyone be involved in his performances.

Steve has every intention of this being a small time thing that gets him through the long work week. What he doesn’t plan for is one of his tapes being found by corroded coffin front man eddie munson. Eddie Munson who loves a mystery, Eddie munson who might be in a big time metal band but has grown up listening to country and know Good Music when he hears it. Eddie Munson who might be Steve’s number one fan and is planning on finding out who is behind the mask

[suspiciouslackofclowns]

I don’t particularly post a lot of (monogamous) Steddie stuff but I just had this idea beamed into my brain that I don’t think I’ve personally seen anyone explore before?

By no means am I a furry, but I am a bit of a Clown Person™️, which means I totally understand the appeal of having a little themed persona/wanting to dress up just for fun or expression, and I just started thinking about Steddie and… fursonas… I guess.

I’m a fan of autistic!Steve more than I’m a fan of autistic!Eddie, because I guess I like to try and explore/learn about different types of neurodivergence and the related experiences? So I’m thinking about autistic!Steve and perhaps adhd!Eddie or even OCD!Eddie, and different ways both of them would regulate their emotions.

Specifically, I am thinking about Eddie having a fursuit and Steve finding it in the closet after they move in together somewhere down the line after becoming official, and he’s immediately like what the fuck is this.

There are a lot of weird things about Eddie, but a fucking… what even is that, a fox? A wolf? Turns out it’s a coyote, and after pressing the issue about a million times, Eddie reveals that his name is Yip-Yap. Based on the sounds that coyotes make in the night, of course.

The character was originally a D&D character, he explained, and that it became more important to him than that at some point, so it stuck around.

The suit is really just paw gloves, a clip-on tail, and the mask, which Eddie made himself, and aside from the obvious initial shock, Steve is impressed with the quality of it.

He knew Eddie could sew on account of his various patched clothing items, but he didn’t think he could sew.

Maybe after the reveal, Eddie becomes less anxious because he doesn’t feel the need to hide it anymore, and he starts suiting around the house again every now and then. When he’s practicing guitar, when he’s listening to one of his audio books, etc.

Maybe Steve gets curious and tries the mask on one day, and it’s weird… but he kind of gets it. It makes him feel silly, in a good way, and he starts thinking about what animal he would be if he had to choose.

Long story short, I think Steve would find his own comfort in it eventually. He gets to bond with Eddie while he teaches him how to sew, he gets to feel goofy and whimsical when he has his own suit, and maybe the two of them even go to cons together.

It’s just a thought, so I probably won’t expand on it in a fic or anything, but I like toying around with silly little concepts sometimes.

[kickassfu]

Help! I'm not in the stranger things fandom (I only watched the first season couldn't get into it) but a while back a really cool fanart series came across my dash. It was about if Robin got pregnant at a gay club and her and Steve co-parent the kid (there were hints of steddie but I can't remember if they were dating yet or not) I can't remember what I tagged it as and didn't follow the author 😭

ok i'd love to help but i'm not sure about this either LOL and i've been kinda vanished from the fandom a bit as well alksdjskf

the most I can do is answer the ask and hopefully someone will see it and help! if nobody answers i'll ask around on the discord that i'm still technically in 😂😂😭😭 and hopefully that'll help! just give it a bit of time 🙏

anyway guys help a friend out pls!!!

[stobinesque]

galaxy brain moment: Eddie is Steve's bi awakening but then he gets over it and the two of them settle into a fun queer friendship. Steff endgame.

[queenie-ofthe-void]

A Desperate Fool - Part 3

Part 2

The comfort is here! This is just a morsel of the Nancy chapter, which means even MORE comfort with a pinch of angst.

~~~

It took a few weeks after Max and Lucas’s surprise visit for Eddie to work up enough courage to fly to Boston to knock on his sister's door-- technically sister from another mister, but he doesn't think that matters much.

Nancy's always believed in him, encouraged him to follow his passions no matter where it took him. Because even if you try and fail, Eddie, then at least you tried, and she’d always be there to catch him. In this case, maybe his passions took him a little too far.

It’s been almost eight months since they’ve talked, and he’s worried she won’t be there this time. Nancy is the fiercest person he knows, ready to stand up for what’s right regardless of the consequences. Hell, it’s what made her such a successful journalist. 

Which is why he’s worried he’ll buckle under the same scrutiny. This isn't a little mistake she can lecture away. Eddie has well and truly fucked up. If he could barely get through conversations with Robin and Max and Lucas, he has no idea how to navigate a conversation with Nancy Wheeler when she wants answers.

Before he can chicken out, the door’s ripped open by the woman herself. She’s different than he remembers. Her hair’s grown out, long and straight without her signature perm. The light pink pajama pants and matching pink slippers soften her edges. She looks good, aside from the bloodshot eyes.

This counts the fourth time Eddie’s ever seen Nancy cry: her freshman year when their cat died, a particularly nasty blow out between her and Mike before she moved for college, and two years ago when Jonathan finally proposed– happy tears, thankfully.

Now she’s standing here, staring at him through red-rimmed eyes and drowning in an oversized Corroded Coffin crewneck. He’s absolutely gutted at the sight. Only the fourth time she’s ever cried, and it’s his fault.

Another hard reminder of his many mistakes.

“Nance, please, can we talk?” He doesn’t know what to say that’ll fix it, but he has to try, she’s too important not to.

She suddenly throws herself at him, practically choking him with the grip of her arms around his neck, and for a moment he thinks she’s about to fight him. But her hand’s cradling the back of his head, and her other’s fisted in the back of his jacket. 

Nancy clings to him and shoves her nose into the crook of his neck. He wraps her up in a fierce hug in return, holding her as she shakes against him.

“Edward James Munson,” she says, forcing the words out around the tears, “I am so, so fucking mad at you.” Nancy lets go of his shirt just to emphasize her point by socking him in the shoulder. Only to grab at him again, like he’ll disappear if she lets go.

“I know, Nancy. I’m sorry.”

She coughs, and Eddie can feel where her tears have soaked his hair through, sticking it uncomfortably to his neck. “I missed you so much.”

He lets out a ragged sigh of relief. She still loves him, even after everything he’s done. Nancy Wheeler is too good for him– the whole world, really– but especially him. He doesn’t deserve someone like her, a sister like her, but he’s also selfish. So he holds onto her tighter, hoping that when he lets go she doesn’t change her mind

She leans out of his grasp to look him in the eye. He doesn’t know what she finds, but Nancy eyes are soft around the edges, filled with love, and she shoves his shoulder again. Not hard though, so she laughs when he dramatically falls backwards clutching his afflicted arm to his chest. He moans and groans, bottom lip jutted out in a firm pout as he bats his eyes at her, waiting for an apology.

“You’re such an asshole,” she says, but she’s smiling at him now and holding out her hand to help him up. He takes it, of course he does. Eddie relaxes, knowing that even though it's his fault she's cried, Nancy Wheeler will always be there to catch him whem he falls- metaphorically at least.

~~~

Part 4

[starshideurfics]

Captive, Captivating, part 2

part 1

into the steddie-verse, omegaverse, dubcon, we’re all in the same imperial rome/war prize gutter together, mdni 🔞

It takes nearly three quarters of an hour for Geta’s knot to go down, and he smiles smugly as his pretty little omega wriggles in place. The way he shifts just so, startling at his body’s reaction, the clench and pulse of being stretched open so perfectly for the first time.

Geta pets over Stepan’s flank, cups the firm cheeks of his round bottom, thinking about how nice it will feel to slam his hips against that plushness when he has his omega present and takes him from behind. How deep he will be able to delve into that sweet cunt to sow his seed. Deep enough it has to catch.

He refrains from slipping his fingers between those cheeks, no matter how much he wants to stroke over the tight furl of Stepan’s asshole. To make him shiver. To whisper, ‘All your holes will be mine, and soon enough you will beg for me to fuck you here.’ His barbarian prince has been through enough for the morning, Geta does not actually wish to terrorize him, especially not with all he has planned for the rest of the day.

Once he finally slips free, Geta plucks up Stepan’s cast aside loincloth, the linen roughspun, and uses it to wipe his cock clean. He smirks when he notices the pale streaks of red mixed with the slick and seed; their couplings will be easier now his maidenhead is broken.

Stepan has curled up on his side, legs squeezed tightly together, arms wrapped around his chest. Geta grips his knee, whispers, “I need to see, mellitus. Make sure the bleeding has stopped.”

He does not speak, simply allows Geta to lift his leg and bare his cunt. The lips are puffy, must be sore, and he’s careful as he gently feels around Stepan’s entrance, pleased to only find slick and seed when he pulls his fingers back. He sucks the shine from them, revels in the taste of them both mixed on his tongue, bitter and sweet and musky, and slowly lowers the omega’s leg. Draping the sheets back over Stepan, Geta stands, pulls on a robe, and goes to the entrance to the tent, ordering hot water and a wash basin be brought at once, along with food to break their fast after.

Sitting at his desk, Geta looks over the reports that will leave with the morning’s courier. He considers scribbling a note to his mother, to tell her of his plans, but quickly thinks better of it. There is little she can do for him from the capital, and surprise will be far more helpful to him when it comes to his brother.

When the water arrives, he tends to himself first, only really worrying about his groin as he washes away the last bits of drying cum. Then he returns to his bed, offering Stepan a hand, and helping him to his feet. Geta has the omega stand in the basin, and drags a warm, wet cloth over his body, washing away the dirt and sweat and slick. He’s nearly finished when Stepan stops his hand, trapping the cloth at his hip. “I can see to myself, Dominus.”

Geta preens at the word, how easily Stepan has begun using the title. My lord. Master. “And I care for what is mine.” Still, he passes the cloth to Stepan, watches as he wipes gingerly between his legs. It’s such a waste, washing all that beautiful slick away when Geta would happily lap it up and swallow it down. But there is not time for such indulgences.

Fetching a larger cloth, he wraps Stepan in it and squeezes his shoulders. “Dry well,” Geta orders, going to dig through a trunk and retrieving a tunica in deep, rich blue, tossing it casually onto the bed. He plucks a wooden comb from a side table, and returns to Stepan, careful as he pulls the fine teeth through his hair. He starts at the ends, working his way up to the roots, breaking up strands held together by sweat and oil, detangling a small knot at his nape. Once he’s satisfied with his work, Geta turns him towards the bed. “Dress. Quickly if you do not wish Caius to see your pretty ass when he brings our food.”

Geta does not take his own advice, robe open and showing off his soft cock, unbothered by his servants seeing him in any state of undress. His focus is again on compiling his reports, rolling up scrolls and slipping them in the courier’s case. He hands the case to Caius after he sets down the tray of roasted goat, bread, dates, and wine that is to be the morning meal.

Caius bows as he is dismissed, casting a furtive eye over to Stepan, the omega looking every inch a prince now he is so richly dressed. Geta suddenly desperately wants to gild him—gold at his throat and wrists, on his fingers, at his ankles and on his head, a chain dripping rubies and pearls around his waist…

Soon enough he will show off his prize, but first, he must stick to his plan.

Which first now means filling his stomach. He takes one chair next to the small table, nods to the other. “Sit. Eat.”

Stepan does as he’s told, his bites small. Even with his nerves quelling his appetite he must be hungrier than that. But Geta does not worry. He will ensure his omega feeds himself properly at the evening’s feast.

His own hunger sated, Geta retrieves a tunica for himself, this one in imperial purple, dressing to meet with an equal, even if Ricardius Spear-Handed is a lesser king of a small kingdom. He finishes with a gold circlet in his hair. He almost realizes too late that Stepan is barefoot, and fetches him a pair of leather sandals that tie in place at his ankle.

“Come, Stepan,” he whispers, offering his hand again, which the omega lightly grips, fingers loose. “A runner has already been sent ahead, and we had best be on our way. Your father will be expecting us.”

🌙🏛️🌿

The roman puts Stepan on a gentle mare, the horse following easily behind his own stallion. Silently, he takes in the familiar forest road, the verdant life and scents of his home in summer surrounding him. At least for the length of the journey he can pretend that this is any other day—that he will go home to sleep in his own nest when night falls, and this will all have been a strange dream.

But it’s not so. He will leave with the romans and almost certainly never return to his homeland. And he shall do so gladly if it will buy safety for his people. If it will keep his siblings from being sent into a losing battle.

His father’s hall comes into view and Stepan wants to leap from his horse and run inside. To fling himself into his mother’s arms and weep against her breast.

The dull ache between his legs is a potent reminder of why he cannot. His master has despoiled him, his value now locked to what this one alpha wants with him.

Fortunately, they do not need to wait long, his father’s personal guard coming out to meet them and escort the romans before their king. But Dominus is the one to offer Stepan his hand and help him from the mare’s back. “I have not chained you to my side, little prince,” he whispers in his ear. “You may go to your parents when we enter the hall. They are sure to be worried after your wellbeing.” He presses a soft kiss just below Stepan’s ear, like he can’t help himself from taking this small liberty. “Show them you are unharmed.”

“Yes, Dominus,” Stepan whispers back, dropping his hand and turning toward to doors.

Yakiv waits there, Master of the Guard, the man who taught Stepan how to hold a sword, to defend himself with a dagger. The one who carried him home when he fell from an apple tree at 8 years old and broke his arm, the one to hear Ravna’s shrieking when all he could do was lie on the ground and whimper in pain.

Stepan keeps his pace even as he crosses to meet him, Yakiv grabbing him by the shoulders as soon as he’s close enough. “Oh, pup, what did you do?”

“I was only… I know the woods so well! I only wanted to come back with information, but-” Stepan stops, swallows, lowers his voice back to just above a whisper. “I was angry. And I thought it would be more help than it was, and I got caught.”

“Yes. You did.” The disappointment in Yakiv’s scent burns in his nose. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

“I know. But the romans knew of Father…”

“And your Latin is good.”

“Yes. And I’m an omega.”

The disappointment turns to concern, but Yakiv does not ask. He simply gathers Stepan to him in a bear hug, then ushers him into the hall.

His parents sit on their thrones, waiting, but as soon as he’s through the doors, his mother—stepmother, but the only mother he can remember—is on her feet, rushing to meet him. She kisses his cheek and wraps her arms around him. “Styopa, my heart, what happened? We’ve been sick with worry.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.” He hides his face against her shoulder. “But I’m all right. Everything will be all right now.”

“Styopa…” His mother doesn’t say anything more, she simply strokes his hair, kisses his forehead, and leads him back to the dais. She takes her seat, and he stands behind her, at her left shoulder.

Even though it is normally beneath his duties, Yakiv announces the roman’s entrance, Dominus followed by his own guards and contingent of soldiers. “My king,” he calls, “Caesar Septimius Geta thanks you for your hospitality and for welcoming him so quickly.”

Stepan’s blood turns to ice as he finally understands.

He is Emperor Severus’s younger son. Brother to Emperor Caracalla. Heir to the whole of the Roman Empire until his brother finally has children of his own.

And he wants Stepan.

The room tilts on its axis, and Stepan only stays upright by clutching at the backrest of the queen’s throne. His father will surely reprimand him for the disrespect, and for showing weakness in front of a foreign ruler. If only his father knew how weak he has already been before Geta.

How little he has to hide.

“Well met, Caesar!” Rikhardt calls, smiling as the roman advances. “Your emissary claims you come with terms of peace. Terms far fairer than our neighbors have been granted.”

Geta smiles with too many teeth. “I do, Rikhardt Spear-Handed. Bend the knee to Rome, and retain all your rights and sovereignties as king here. You will have the protection of Rome without giving up any of your lands or powers.”

Stepan looks to his father, sees his skeptical smile, knows the offer sounds too good to be true.

“And what do you ask of me, Septimius Geta?”

“I, of course, require that you offer hospitality and safe passage to any roman citizen passing through your lands, that you give quarter to legionnaires on campaign, and…” Geta pauses, glances around the room, dark eyes locking with Stepan’s for a long moment before he turns his attention back to the king. “I ask for your eldest son’s neck. I wish to take Stepan as my mate.”

A mating is more than a marriage, especially amongst romantic nobles as far as Stepan has learned. A marriage is an arrangement between families, built on politics and trade rather than attraction or intimacy. Stepan had not thought he would even be offered marriage, just the comfort of being a pampered concubine, one who could be a spy because who cares what is said before an unlearned foreigner.

But a mating—

“Stepan, come,” Rikhardt says, motioning with two fingers, and Stepan rushes to comply, certain he’s missed some of the conversation as he circles around to stand beside him.

“Yes, Father?”

Rikhardt takes Stepan by the hand, looks up into the eyes that match his own, and asks, “Do you accept this alpha’s offer for your neck?”

Stepan does not hesitate in his answer. There is no other choice. “I do.”

“Good. Then it is what shall be!” Rikhardt stands, puts an arm around Stepan’s shoulder, and turns his gaze back onto Geta and his wolfish grin. “We shall prepare the wedding feast, for tonight you will marry him before our gods, and then his neck will be yours.”

Part 3

[gayphob1a]

November 6th, Getting High

It’s a hard day every year. The anniversary effect, Joyce tells him. It’s been six years since the day Will went missing and set off the chain of events that changed Steve’s life forever. He wasn’t even there for that part of it, but getting to know Will, adopting him into his little troup of kids, and watching him fall silent on this day every year sets them all on edge. But this year feels different.

The anxiety is still there, and Steve thinks it always will be, but this time there are no tingles on the back of necks, no chill in the air that alights every sense into fight or fight mode (Steve is almost certain he has no flight or freeze reactions anymore). Plus, now he has Robin, and Eddie, and to the shock and awe of everyone involved, Jonathan and Nancy too. So this year, they get to celebrate.

Steve spends all day in the kitchen making Will’s favorite foods. Mac and cheese with a baked top of breadcrumbs, rotisserie chicken because Will loves the drumsticks, green bean casserole, which Steve isn’t a fan of personally, but it reminds Will of the dish Joyce makes on thanksgiving from cans they get at the foodbank, and he wants to spoil them with a version using fresh ingredients from the farmers market. There’s even a cake cooling on the counter and homemade cream cheese frosting, which Steve has had to swat Eddie’s sneaky fingers out of at least three times now. Eddie sits on the kitchen counter the whole time, keeping Steve company with a fondness in his expression that softens Steve to letting him lick the beaters he used to whip up the frosting. He’s a mess, and Steve loves him.

When evening rolls around, their apartment fills with the whole party. Even Argyle made the trip back to Hawkins to celebrate. He brings a bag of Cali weed with him, stronger shit than they can get out here, and Steve is completely fucked when it hits his bloodstream and looks at Eddie because Argyle’s weed always has a way of putting him in horny bitch mode, and Eddie with smoke streaming from his nostrils, giggling about how it makes him look like a dragon doesn’t help.

When the kids are full of food and piled up in front of the TV to watch Never Ending Story and mock Dustin mercilessly, Steve drags Eddie into their bedroom, unable to keep his hands off of him for another minute.

“Steve. Steve, oh my god.” Eddie pants as their hips roll together in a clumsy rhythm. “If you keep doing that you’re going to lose, baby boy.”

“Don’t care,” Steve pants into Eddie’s skin, intoxicated by the weed and the scent of his cheap cologne. “Just want you. Eddie… god I can’t believe I agreed to this being the word. Let me nut?”

“Fuck, okay.” And Steve can tell Eddie is just as desperate as he is after almost a week without making him cum. Eddie reaches a hand between them, cupping his hand around Steve’s cock to give him more friction to grind against, relishing in the wanton moans it draws out of him. Steve never thought the sounds of children screaming from his living room while he’s trying to get off would be a good thing, but well, he’s not exactly being quiet, and he’s dreading a lull in their shrieks that will inevitably get him caught.

He keeps moving his hips, his hands gripping at every inch of Eddie’s skin, squeezing his hip bones and digging his nails into the exposed skin of his shoulders. They keep the apartment hot just so Steve can see his boyfriend in those slutty tank tops he cuts down to his navel. And yeah, they’ve been playing, but not finishing for a full week is sending Steve teetering towards the edge faster than he expected. When Eddie’s hand flexes around him, he nearly cries, nearly cums on the spot.

But then there’s a knock at the door.

“Steve? Eddie? Are you guys okay in there?”

Will. Shit. Steve comes crashing back down to Earth in an instant. The worry in his voice is clear, and Steve is filled with guilt for worrying the kid today of all days. He reaches down and stills Eddie’s palm, giving it a squeeze in apology before opening the door a crack and leaning out to see the kid… smirking?

“We’re fine. Are you okay?” Steve adjusts himself behind the door and smacks Eddie’s shoulder for laughing silently.

“I’m fine. Eddie told me to check up on you guys when you snuck off. Do you guys… need anything?”

“No,” Steve says, shooting Eddie a glare that would make him drop dead if looks could kill. “No, we don’t need anything. We’ll be out in a minute, okay?”

“Okay.” Will says, slinking away with a look on his face that is far too knowledgeable about their escapades.

Steve closes the door quietly behind him and rounds on Eddie. “You enlisted a CHILD to keep me from coming?”

Eddie shrugs. “Sorry baby, I didn’t know you were going to actually back out. I couldn’t let you lose this early on.”

“You know I hate you, right?”

“Aw, that’s not true. You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I’m proud of you for telling me what you need, Stevie, and if you really want it we can end this later tonight after everyone leaves.”

There’s no debate, Steve wants it, but competition has pumped through him like ice in his veins since his very first basketball game. And, okay, maybe Eddie had a point about the build up, the anticipation, because so far the play has been like nothing he’s ever experienced before and as much as he’d love to paint Eddie’s chest in thick stripes of warm cum and play with it like a finger painting, he wants to see how this month ends more.

“No! I-I mean, it’s okay. I want to keep going, really.” Steve sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face, and goes into the ensuite to calm himself down. There’s no way he would be able to walk away from Eddie’s evil smirk and he promised the kid they were done.

For now, at least.

@steddievember

[wormdebut]

EDDIE AS CORPSE HUSBAND AU WHEN

[himbosandhardwear]

Oh no...he's hot...